


Return to a Former Place

by blehgah



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Everyone shows up - Freeform, Getting Together, Light Angst, M/M, Pre-Slash, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-17 13:04:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9325346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blehgah/pseuds/blehgah
Summary: Inspired by 글쎄. Seungcheol and Jihoon have danced around certain aspects of their relationship for years. They attempt to resolve these issues.





	

He lies in bed and he thinks about the past. He thinks about a former self, changes made, shifts in the tides and seasons that have come and go. It all seems so far away.

It’s easy to drag a memory out of hiding thanks to the wonders of technology. He doesn’t need to rely on a faulty brain in order to recall what has faded into a series of muddled sensations—the brush of fingers over skin, the smell of sweat after dance practice, the vibration of their voices echoing in a green room with mirrors lining its walls. This ease of access approaches something scary, he thinks; he’s unsure if he can deal with the stark reality of what used to be.

The boy on the screen with the long, messy black hair and the chubby cheeks and the awkward, crooked smile doesn’t look like him. It can’t be him. Can it?

The boy on the screen pinned under the boy with a cocky grin and strong shoulders can’t be Lee Jihoon.

Can it?

Sometimes Jihoon remembers a date—a wedding date. It’s been over three years since then. To this day, Jihoon can remember the surprised amusement he felt. Getting married to his hyung—ha. What a funny joke that had been.

Right?

It’s so easy to sit through minutes, hours of footage from back then. All Jihoon needs to do is select a video and press play. All it takes is a press of a button to set his feet on memory lane.

It’s an easy process, but at the same time, it feels as if facing his former self is one of the hardest things he’s ever done.

That boy with the cocky smile and the strong shoulders plays “Jihoon” like a puppet, a toy. “Jihoon” bends to his will with almost no protest; even the Jihoon of today can barely remember saying _no_ to his hyung.

Maybe that’s why they never talked. Maybe that’s why his hyung never approached—once he couldn’t play Jihoon like he used to, once Jihoon’s simple mechanisms transformed into something foreign and complex, his hyung simply gave up.

That’s still fresh, even years after the fact. It stings like the snap of a broken guitar string over skin.

Back then, before debut, before _“Adore U is a fresh and funky pop song that showcases Seventeen’s unique colours”_ , before fansigns with invasive questions and before luxurious presents dropped on their doorstep on November 22, Jihoon could barely wrap his head around the idea of handling his members’, his _friends’,_ success. It was so much to process at once and the adjustment period was beyond gruelling.

He sacrificed a lot for them to get where they are today. He can’t say he regrets it. _Regret_ hovers on the edge of something dark, something cold and sharp and hard.

Part of him realizes that he’s done things that can’t be taken back, things that have carved rifts and lacerations that will take time to heal, but at the same time, he does not know what else he could have done. Now he is left with the shreds and slivers of things past—but at least he can look forward to things to come.

That is easier said than done, especially when the future looms over him, imposing like unscalable mountains, expectations growing past the barrier of his thin, pink fingers high into the atmosphere where his breath would be short nonetheless. And that’s kind of what this is, he thinks; he’s stuck in the height of expectation where the air is thin and he can hardly breathe.

Was it worth it, he wonders.

He thinks of his hyung. He thinks of the bright floodlights, the whir of the cameras, the firepit, the feel of his hyung’s arms around his shoulders. He thinks of the tears in his eyes, on both their faces, the hurt growing spines in the length of his throat.

He doesn’t really quite know.

He lies in bed and he thinks about the future. He lies in bed, eyes closed, thoughts open and wild and restless. It all seems so far away.

 

* * *

 

Back then, things seemed to be simple and easy. Seungcheol could wrap his arms around his dongsaeng’s shoulders and his dongsaeng would let him. Seungcheol could drag their bodies across the room with a grin on his lips and a camera in their faces.

It was simple. It was easy. It was mindless affection, a desire to be close, something he could grasp and take and, dammit, it was _easy._

What wasn’t easy was the separation.

Remembering a time before the separation is easier than it should be. Memories of sides pressed together like pages in a book, shared earbuds, and hours in a room with only him, his dongsaeng, and a little electric keyboard are so easy to summon to the front of his traitorous brain he could scream.

He doesn’t scream, though. He writes and raps and rides the beats and rhythms his dongsaeng provides, the genius composer he is. He relies on his dongsaeng and that’s a weird reversal that sits funny on his tongue like a foreign language.

The difference is palpable. Seungcheol wishes it were more so, wishes it were a real thing he could hold in his fingers and manipulate to his desires. He wishes it were something he could tear apart just to feel the satisfaction, just to wrap his head around something approaching _catharsis._

Back then, it was simple. It was easy. He grabbed Jihoon when he was close because he felt like it. He held Jihoon’s hand because it was nearby. All it took was simple motion, unthinking contraction and relaxation of muscles, and he’d have what he wanted.

He’s always wanted Jihoon, he thinks.

That’s something he hasn’t thought about in depth and he doesn’t think he will any time soon.

Right now, he wants it to be simple. He wants it to be simple and easy.

It’s not, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want it.

He wants it so _fucking_ bad he can’t articulate the words to describe the feeling. It’s like longing, endless pining, a string of hope constantly unravelling from the cup of Jihoon’s palm. Seungcheol holds his breath the entire time he watches the string fall, limitless.

That’s what it’s like to be around Jihoon nowadays. It feels like holding his breath underwater, uncertain about when Jihoon would pull him out.

He feels it in his chest, restricting his lungs—and his heart, he supposes, by consequence, but he doesn’t think about his heart much—and limiting his capacity to breathe. It leaves him dizzy.

He craves satisfaction. He wants to feel the shape of Jihoon’s thoughts and drag his fingers over them, searching for messages written in braille. He wants to put those thoughts together like puzzle pieces because he aches for a tangible image, a sign, directions and instructions that will tell him what to do and how to fix things. He craves relief.

Back then, it was simple and easy. He wants things to be simple and easy.

“Nothing is easy and happiness is only a word.”

Not that Seungcheol wants to believe that.

 

* * *

 

What Jihoon feels for Seungcheol is—

He doesn’t want to finish that sentence.

_It’s, uh. It’s kinda blurry. It’s kinda vague._

Yeah. That’ll do.

 

* * *

 

What Seungcheol feels for Jihoon is endless. It does not take any shape or form. It cannot be contained by boxes or labels.

What Seungcheol feels for Jihoon has a life of its own. It wants and craves, it hungers and thirsts, it waits and waits and waits. It searches for closure—or, perhaps, continuation.

Sometimes Seungcheol isn’t sure. Sometimes reason wins over desire. Sometimes desire unsheathes its razor-sharp claws and tears reason to shreds and laughs, throwing its head back with mighty mirth.

Either way, Seungcheol doesn’t have a say in the matter. He has responsibilities. He has twelve kids to take care of, and yeah, Jihoon is one of them. That doesn’t change things. At this point, it’s proving to be increasingly difficult to go back to how things used to be.

And maybe that’s not where they’re meant to go. The past ought to stay in the past, after all. But Seungcheol finds himself missing who they used to be, when things were simple and easy, and maybe that’s the opposite direction of where he should be facing.

It’s difficult, he thinks. Things that are new are also daunting and unfamiliar, and he craves the simplicity of times where he didn’t have so many things to care about.

He supposes that’s irresponsible. Selfish, even.

But Seungcheol cares enough to be responsible, in the end, and that wins out over simple and easy, in the end.

There has to be another way.

 

* * *

 

What Jihoon feels for Seungcheol has changed.

That’s not to paint things in black and white. That’s not to put this on a spectrum, per se. His feelings have evolved, plain and simple.

As if something like that could ever be simple.

What he felt for Seungcheol before was sweet and warm, smooth like honey down the throat, soothing like mint on the tongue. It was easy to swallow and easy to comprehend. There’s nothing complicated about admiring his hyung’s talent, his natural charisma, and his confident, almost cocky strength.

If he digs deep enough, he can find shades of complexity; things are hardly as simple as they appear to be on the surface. If he peels back the layers of their relationship, he can find things like longing, jealousy, apprehension, desire—and then he’s walking treacherous, dangerous territory.

At times, Jihoon wished he could slip underneath Seungcheol’s skin and take a trip down the winding paths of his veins. He wondered if it would help him understand Seungcheol. After all, how many secrets could you hide from the surface of your brain? He wondered if it would bring them closer. He remembers wanting to be close with Seungcheol, then closer still, then _closer—_

And that’s where things reach the height of complexity, he thinks. That’s where his brain stops, where he puts his damn foot down because they’re both boys and boys don’t do that with each other.

Some part of him wonders what Seungcheol thought of it back then. The curiosity burns him up sometimes: Seungcheol was always the one initiating things, always the one pinning him to the floor or the table or the wall. Of course Jihoon never thought twice about it—nothing beyond _ah, hyung, you’re clingy today, aren’t you?_

Sometimes it just—felt _right,_ like it was only natural for Seungcheol to be exerting his strength over Jihoon like that. Why not, right? Seungcheol was the picture perfect hyung.That’s all it was—just your typical hyung and dongsaeng relationship.

At least, that’s what he thought back then. And maybe what Jihoon truly craves is the innocence of his youth—or maybe he’s better off calling it ignorance.

Either way, now it’s not nearly so… simple. Above all things, Jihoon craves simplicity. He’s only a particle of dust in the vast world around him; why can’t things be _easy?_

 

 

 

Jihoon looks at Seungcheol and isn’t sure who he’s seeing. Seungcheol is an amalgamation of things: he’s Seventeen’s leader; he’s hip hop unit’s leader; he’s the oldest; he’s Jihoon’s long-time friend. He is capable of being all these things at once, but sometimes one rules over the others, and goddammit, this is all more complicated than it needs to be.

Seungcheol smiles and lifts his occupied hand a little higher.

“I said I brought you coffee,” he informs Jihoon, wearing a crooked grin.

“Oh,” Jihoon replies dumbly. He shuffles closer without standing from his chair and accepts the gift with a small bow of his head.

Seemingly satisfied, Seungcheol nudges the studio door closed behind him and hunts down another chair. He pulls it up next to Jihoon, nursing his own cup of coffee.

One glance at his monitor tells Jihoon that it is 2AM on the dot. Not too late, but not too early, either.

The studio is something of a neutral ground. It is a meeting place for them, a constant in their rapidly shifting lives. Here, they don’t necessarily need to rely on words to maintain a connection: the music speaks for them.

The coffee washes down the more persistent bits of fatigue weighing down Jihoon’s eyelids. By now, Seungcheol has memorized Jihoon’s preferred coffee order—one cream and one sugar. It is also the same as Seungcheol’s. Sometimes Jihoon wonders if they have ordered coffee together so often that they ended up having the same preferences. He supposes it doesn’t really matter, but at the same time, it’s truly the little things that make a difference.

Jihoon considers Seungcheol’s posture. In the dead of the night, Seungcheol seems about as tired as he should be: his broad shoulders sag in his slightly too-large sweater and the lines around his eyes seem dark under the artificial white light.

“Need help with anything?” Seungcheol asks, drawing Jihoon’s attention to his mouth. His lips are chapped; he probably didn’t drink enough water after today’s dance practice, and Jihoon doubts the dropping temperature is helping any.

Humming in thought, Jihoon turns back to his monitor. “Well,” he says, chewing on the word in contemplation, “I think I could use some feedback on this section.”

He plays the part. It doesn’t take long for them to fall into an easy back and forth, discussing the various elements at hand.

It’s nice. Now this is simple. Now this is easy. With regards to the song, the end goal is still so far away, but, right now, being with Seungcheol is almost like it used to be.

They leave only when they finish their coffee. On their way back to the dorm, Jihoon shivers in the cold of the night and Seungcheol looks down at him with concern. When their eyes meet, Jihoon wills his body to still, and it doesn’t take long for Seungcheol’s eyes to dart away, anyway.

 

* * *

 

“The showcase is in two days,” Seungcheol announces.

The sound of his voice startles Jihoon to the point of almost falling out of his chair. He’d been squirreled up in his studio battling nervousness—and he was supposed to be doing it _alone_ , thanks. He is certain he had locked the door, but apparently he is wrong about that. His mistake stares him in the face from the doorway.

“What are you doing here?” Seungcheol asks, advancing. The studio door closes behind him with a soft click.

Jihoon wants to speak, but it takes too much energy to move his teeth and tongue in a manner that will produce comprehensible words. His jaw locks and his eyes grow wide as he stares blankly at Seungcheol’s face.

“Jihoon?” Seungcheol asks.

This album—Jihoon poured his heart and soul into it. Not that he doesn’t put as much effort into all the music he produces, but there are sizeable chunks of his person in this album in particular. He thinks it might be possible to piece together a small child with all the fragments of himself he put into this album.

To bare it all to the world… of course that is the only logical outcome. He produces music for people to hear, and he’d thought of that while he was putting it all together, but now, in the face of their upcoming comeback and showcase, he can feel the self-consciousness blossoming in his stomach. It blooms and blooms and breaks him down, toxic oleander, beautiful and dangerous all at once.

That can be said about any emotion, he supposes. It can devour your entire body if you let it. Perhaps soon he will no longer be Lee Jihoon, producer for idol group Seventeen; maybe the overgrowth of his anxiety will sprout into something greater than that. Maybe in his wake he can leave behind fields of flowers instead of the burdens of his emotional turmoil.

Jihoon blinks once, twice. Seungcheol takes a few steps closer.

Jihoon swallows and the sound echoes in the room.

“I can’t,” Jihoon says.

Seungcheol closes the distance between them. He takes Jihoon’s elbows into his hands, and the strength of those familiar hands on his skin strikes a match in Jihoon’s head. Jihoon melts, catching fire, and relies on Seungcheol to catch him.

And, of course, Seungcheol does.

“Hey,” Seungcheol murmurs, sliding his hands up the length of Jihoon’s arms. His grip comes up around Jihoon’s shoulder blades as Jihoon sinks lower and falls against Seungcheol’s chest.

“I can’t,” Jihoon says. His voice is muffled against Seungcheol’s shirt and yet his words seem to bounce around the room with a life of their own.

Everything that falls from Jihoon’s mouth and fingers seems to come alive and burst through the flimsy reins of control Jihoon has always thought he had, released into the wild, twisted out of their original meaning and into something huge and monstrous. That’s how he ended up here, isn’t it? Here, where he strains under the pressure of leading his members to success because he happened to showcase a certain talent at a certain time.

That’s how he ended up _here_ , face pillowed against Seungcheol’s sturdy chest, frightened at the mere thought of spilling his guts any more than he already has on this damn album, unable to speak as if he has forgotten how to move his mouth and shake the air with words.

Seungcheol holds him and threads his fingers through Jihoon’s hair. It seems like eternities pass before Jihoon manages to find the strength to return the embrace.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Seungcheol tells him. His words fall through Jihoon’s ears like sand through a sieve.

Sometimes Jihoon thinks he could trust Seungcheol with his life. Sometimes, moments like now where fear and anxiety weave through every atom in his body and root him to the floor, he sees Seungcheol as a liar at best.

Jihoon doesn’t say a thing.

 

* * *

 

It’s 3:29AM on the day of their showcase when Seungcheol sees that Jihoon’s studio light is still on. Of course.

The kids have already gone to bed. There had been some difficulty settling down after the excitement of the music video release, but they have performances to do. They know they will perform better on a good night of sleep. Now Seungcheol had to trust them to stay asleep.

The incident the night before… Seungcheol recalls it with such striking clarity: all he has to do is close his eyes and he is transported back to Jihoon’s studio with his arms around Jihoon’s small, shaking frame.

Seungcheol would be lying if he said he understood what might be going on in Jihoon’s head. There might have been a time when he thought he understood the mechanisms of Jihoon’s mind, but that time has passed, closed off by wounds still healing, wounds inflicted thanks to this previous _assumption_ of understanding.

The price he has paid for refusing to speak when he could have, for assuming and mind-reading and _avoiding_ , is steep, and he’d like to avoid a repetition, thanks.

That’s why he knocks on the studio door. He’s not going to ignore this. Not this time.

No answer. Seungcheol shoulders his way into the room anyway.

Jihoon is slumped at his desk, staring up at the screen with his hands folded in front of his mouth. There are headphones encasing his ears and closing him off from the outside world.

Seungcheol glances up at the monitor. “Don’t Listen in Secret” plays; Seungcheol can vaguely recognize the shape of the sound waves as they progress across the screen, but it helps that the name of the track is printed at the top of the file.

When the track comes to an end, Jihoon puts his headphones down. Watching them settle against the top of Jihoon’s desk is like watching a wall crumbling.

“Hyung…” Jihoon starts, but he trails off. He sounds vaguely guilty, as he always does when he’s caught like this late at night, but he makes no move to apologize. He makes no move at all. Stiff tension seizes his body and Seungcheol decides to maintain his distance for a while.

Instead of approaching Jihoon, Seungcheol takes a seat on the bench behind his work station. Jihoon turns in his chair to track Seungcheol’s movements. When they settle into quiet stillness, something approaching tranquility, Jihoon’s shoulders begin to slump.

Seungcheol balances his weight on his knees and tries not to put too much force into his stare as he regards Jihoon.

“Can’t sleep?” Seungcheol asks eventually. There are several false starts hanging around the folds of his mouth, questions that may have sounded accusatory rather than concerned. He feels confident in his choice of words, in the end.

Jihoon mulls the question over. Seungcheol can see him turn the words over in his head like the husk of a dead insect.

“Yeah,” Jihoon replies after a few breaths.

“Thinking about… stuff?” Seungcheol hazards.

Jihoon shrugs. He shifts his seat back and forth on its pivot, using the tips of his shoes to turn it just slightly.

“Yeah,” Jihoon says again.

Seungcheol raises a hand to his mouth, contemplative.

“It’s going to be okay, you know,” he says, going for confident and hoping that it’ll rub off somehow.

Jihoon crosses his legs. He turns towards the door for a second, facing away from Seungcheol, closing off momentarily. But then he turns back and sighs, deflating, shrinking slowly until he’s a frame of a man in an expensive desk chair.

“I know,” Jihoon says with a tone of voice that says he really doesn’t. “We’ve put a lot of work into this, and I’m sure it’ll do well. In fact, it’s the best work we’ve done, I think…”

The way Jihoon trails off yet again reels Seungcheol in, pulling him until he’s taut.

“But?” Seungcheol asks.

Jihoon shrugs. “It’s… I don’t know.” Jihoon dumps his hands in his lap and plays with the ring on his right pinky. “I don’t know,” he repeats, answering some unsaid question, more to himself than anything.

“You’ll never know anything for sure, you know,” Seungcheol tells him gently. “Whatever horrible scenarios you’re cooking up aren’t gonna happen for sure. You probably don’t even have any logical proof that it’ll, like, crash and burn or whatever you’re envisioning.”

Jihoon’s shoulders tense up again. His gaze crawls across the floor, and in the end, it stays lowered. “Yeah…” he admits quietly. “You’re right.”

When Jihoon finally looks up at Seungcheol, his eyes are dark and bright and piercing. Seungcheol feels Jihoon’s gaze over every bit of exposed skin on his body, drilling into him with millions of tiny, tiny needles.

“I’ve just—” Jihoon takes a shaky, steadying inhale. “I’ve just been thinking,” he continues, “about—you know. ‘I Don’t Know’.”

It’s Seungcheol’s turn to tense.

“I Don’t Know” is one of their mixed unit songs. While all of them pull from personal experiences when writing lyrics, Seungcheol had found inspiration in events relating to his members. A certain member, to be precise.

Jihoon’s eyes continue to carve microscopic holes into Seungcheol’s skin.

Seungcheol knows Jihoon did the same.

Immediately, Seungcheol feels gravity warp his senses, his body thrown into limbo, a certain state of free-floating he associates with Jihoon and Jihoon alone. So many unknowns and assumptions and miscommunications have made their relationship murky and hard to wade through. It’s jarring to suddenly address it—though the acknowledgement is vague and indirect on its own.

Maybe they talked about each other in their lyrics; maybe they didn’t. They didn’t name names. Things aren’t concrete unless names are named. Right?

Sweat slides down the curve of Seungcheol’s neck.

No, Seungcheol knows Jihoon was talking about him. His lyrics felt like an attempt to understand, to wrap his head around feelings that haven’t been resolved in years, feelings that have evolved despite their inability to discuss it in the open, or maybe as a result of failing to do so.

“I’ve been thinking about that song lately,” Jihoon tells him. He advances forward on his wheeled chair at a snail’s pace. “I’ve been thinking about that song, and what you wrote, and what I wrote.”

Seungcheol swallows and fears that the sound of his saliva working down his throat can be heard throughout the entire building.

“Yeah?” Seungcheol asks, the word wavering on his trembling voice.

Jihoon stops. His feet are rooted on the ground only mere inches away from Seungcheol’s. There remains about an arm’s length of space between them, but Seungcheol thinks he can feel Jihoon’s breath on his skin, the movement of air into either of their sets of lungs, their shared intimate space, crowded, close, _close_ —but maybe not close enough.

“I don’t—” Jihoon stops to huff a few dry, mirthless laughs. “It’s funny how well the title fits the song, you know, because—I just don’t fucking know, hyung. I don’t know. I’ve _never_ known, not once in my life. I’ve never been absolutely certain about anything.”

Jihoon turns sharply in his chair and suddenly Seungcheol is staring at nothing.

“ _Are we unable to go back…_ Do I want to go back?” Jihoon asks himself out loud. “Would I, if I could?”

With slow movements, Jihoon turns around again. The lines around his eyes are an endless maze and Seungcheol doesn’t think he’s ever found a way out of Jihoon’s gaze.

“I’ve thought about it countless times and I still don’t know, hyung,” Jihoon says. His voice carries a fragility that urges Seungcheol to hold his hands out to catch it in case it falls, but he manages to keep his hands to himself.

“ _Let’s talk next time_ ,” Seungcheol recites.

Jihoon freezes.

“Let’s talk next time,” Seungcheol says again, renewed strength boosting the volume of his voice. “This is—this is next time. Next time is now. We’re talking now,” he babbles, unsure of where he’s going with it. “Right?” he asks, and suddenly any confidence he may have been projecting earlier fizzles into nothing.

Jihoon sighs, a quiet yet heavy thing that seems to fill the whole room, replacing the space Seungcheol’s confidence used to occupy.

“Yeah,” Jihoon agrees, “we are. Kind of.” He smiles.

“It’s a start,” Seungcheol says. The hope in his voice sounds tinny and staticky to his own ears. He wonders if Jihoon finds it irritating.

Jihoon holds Seungcheol’s gaze. Seungcheol can see the thoughts rolling through Jihoon’s head, innumerable flashes of emotions neither of them can really grasp, and he understands the difficulty of trying to speak all too well.

It’s hard. They’re not used to doing this. They’ve never done this, in fact. They don’t talk about what happened; Seungcheol isn’t even one hundred percent sure about what happened in the first place. It was a series of events, and maybe Seungcheol can pinpoint where he thinks it went wrong, but Jihoon might think differently, and maybe Seungcheol is wrong, after all. Time has made things blurry, washed away the sharpness of certain details, and it has weathered their relationship to the point of rawness that they both feel.

“We can talk about it after,” Jihoon says haltingly after a while. Seungcheol wants to dip his fingers in each pause in Jihoon’s tone. “After the showcase, I mean.”

Seungcheol smiles. Jihoon smiles back, after a moment of hesitation.

“Of course,” Seungcheol says.

 

* * *

 

They finish BOOM BOOM promotions in January. They hadn’t talked about the song at all, not once.

After their goodbye stage, the group goes drinking. Now that Seungkwan and Hansol are of age, Seungcheol decided that he ought to treat everyone. Promotions had gone well. Things are good.

About an hour into the festivities, Seungkwan ends up sprawled over Hansol and Chan’s laps, sobbing about how much he loves them. Hansol isn’t faring much better, but he’s a lot quieter about it; he’s probably using his remaining energy to hold back tears.

Minghao and Junhui decided to play the role of caretaker together and watch on with amused and weary eyes. Chan has unwittingly become Hansol and Seungkwan’s keeper. Seungcheol thinks it’s hilarious. It’s even funnier when they try to herd everyone back to the dorm in a barely organized, wobbly bubble of young men—no longer kids, for the most part, Seungcheol realizes. The thought makes his eyes water just slightly.

Jeonghan, who’s being supported by a mostly sober Jisoo, leans into Seungcheol’s shoulder and points an accusatory finger in his face. The offending digit almost goes straight up Seungcheol’s nose.

“You!” Jeonghan slurs. Jisoo tightens his grip around Jeonghan’s middle. “You’re crying!” Jeonghan shouts.

Seungcheol sniffs. “Am not!” Seungcheol exclaims, indignant.

Junhui steps between Jeonghan and Seungcheol and slides an easy arm around Seungcheol’s waist. Seungcheol softens at the contact immediately.

“Come on, guys, let’s just worry about getting back. Alright?” Junhui suggests firmly.

Jeonghan is quick to turn his attention on Junhui instead, grilling him about talking informally to his elders. It’s easy for Seungcheol to tune them out. Eventually, Junhui lets go of Seungcheol in favour of gesturing with his hands and Seungcheol is left to waddle forward by himself.

His solitude doesn’t last for long. A new set of hands fall upon the bottom of his jacket, pulling him into the warm space of another body.

“Hyung,” says Jihoon’s small, wavering voice. His face is red with the cold and the alcohol and his face is scrunched up in a cute pout. “Need to talk to you,” he adds.

Seungcheol makes a questioning noise. “‘Sup?”

Jihoon shakes his head vigorously. “Not here,” he says. A hint of urgency helps his words bounce around Seungcheol’s head like a bunch of rubber balls, consuming so many facets of his attention at once. “Inside. In the dorm.” He pauses to swallow. “Alone.”

Alone. _Alone._ The word bounces faster than the others and eventually, it knocks the rest of them out. It takes some effort, but Seungcheol manages to catch it, grasping the thought in his hands like a precious artifact.

He looks down at Jihoon and smiles.

“Of course!” he says just a little too loudly.

Jihoon relaxes nonetheless. He hovers at Seungcheol’s side during the rest of their trip back to the dorm, clinging to his jacket like a child. Seungcheol slides a protective arm around Jihoon’s shoulders at one point, and that earns him a low hum resembling a cat’s purr.

They lose Junhui and Minghao’s scattered attention and sneak off to the kitchen. The distance between the first and the second floors provides them with just enough privacy that neither of them bother looking around to check for eavesdroppers.

“So,” Seungcheol starts, bracing his weight against a counter, “what’s up?”

Jihoon fidgets, his back against the counter opposite to Seungcheol. Seungcheol watches him patiently; the sound of his heartbeat in his own ears serves as pleasant background music as he waits.

When Jihoon can’t find the words to say, he settles on singing. The hesitant melody of Jihoon’s voice catches Seungcheol’s attention first. Seungcheol loves it when Jihoon sings. But when the words finally register in Seungcheol’s head, he stands up straighter.

“ _I throw a question towards you, standing blankly across our street that's all out of place. Are we unable to go back? Don't really quite know, I don't really know_ ,” Jihoon sings. The tumble of the words out of his mouth feels like a confession—and, Seungcheol hazards to think, it kind of is.

It is, in its own way, or, at least, it’s the beginning of one. Seungcheol waits for the rest of the words to come.

Silence settles between them. Seungcheol wiggles his fingers because he can, because he wants to test the rigidity of the quiet and how unforgiving it might be.

“I’ve been thinking,” Jihoon finally says, and Seungcheol thinks the phrase sounds awfully familiar. “I’ve been thinking,” Jihoon says again, “about… that song. About you. Everything, I guess.”

The alcohol has loosened Jihoon’s tongue, but his eyes stay somewhere on the floor, still too shy to meet Seungcheol’s gaze.

“What we had before,” Jihoon says more firmly this time around, as if he is thrusting the words out to Seungcheol in a forceful manner, “it’s—it’s gone. It’s finished. I don’t think we can go back. But,” and here he pauses to take a breath, “but I don’t think that means what we have now isn’t good. Or, like, that we can’t find something just as good, or even better.”

Jihoon exhales and shrinks against the counter. Seungcheol counts the centimetres Jihoon loses with every second of lost breath.

“We can’t go back,” Jihoon says with a note of finality, “but we can move forward.”

Jihoon’s eyes drift upwards until they meet Seungcheol’s.

“Right?” he asks. His voice starts to waver. “Does that make sense?”

This conversation is a little too heavy for Seungcheol’s intoxicated brain, but he gets what Jihoon’s saying. He thinks he has always known this truth somewhere in his heart or in his mind or whatever. You can’t turn back time. You can’t go back; things will never be the same as they had once been. But that isn’t an inherently bad thing.

Seungcheol nods. He tips forward a bit, but he rights his balance with another careful step forward.

“Hyung?” Jihoon asks. He purses his lips, but the expression eventually melts into a smile. “You’re fucking wasted, aren’t you?”

Seungcheol shakes his head.

“No, no, no,” Seungcheol insists. He takes another step forward and rests his weight on the counter Jihoon is situated against, using his arm to hold himself up. The move boxes Jihoon in, but Jihoon doesn’t seem to mind; he simply tilts his head up at Seungcheol to compensate for their height difference.

“At least, uh, not completely,” Seungcheol adds.

Laughing quietly, Jihoon reaches out and takes Seungcheol’s head into his hands. He gives it a little shake and Seungcheol plays along, sticking his tongue out and making a little _bleh_ noise.

Jihoon’s smile is soft all around, sweet and supple like a marshmallow, and just that thought alone makes Seungcheol want to taste it and see if the comparison is accurate. Then he thinks he should probably give Jihoon some sort of dignified response—that is, if he can.

“You’re drunk, too,” Seungcheol points out. Their close proximity is enough to prove it.

Jihoon shrugs. “Doesn’t matter since you treated us,” he says.

Seungcheol doesn’t see the connection. He shrugs as well.

“Well,” Seungcheol says, “I guess—I mean, yeah. Yeah. Totally. I totally agree with what you said.”

Jihoon rolls his eyes. “Thanks for your insightful contribution,” he deadpans.

“Hey,” Seungcheol whines. The pitiful syllable draws Jihoon’s attention to his mouth, to the round pout his lips have shaped. “This was kind of a shit time to have this talk, you know,” he says.

Jihoon’s eyes linger on Seungcheol’s mouth. He drops his gaze abruptly and shoves at Seungcheol’s stomach.

“Shut up,” Jihoon grumbles. “It was, like, the only time I could get the, you know, nerve to do it. I guess. Yeah.”

When Seungcheol grins, Jihoon pushes him again. This time, Seungcheol stumbles, but Jihoon is there, quick as lightning, to prevent him from falling onto his ass.

“You’re so fucking heavy, jesus christ,” Jihoon huffs.

Seungcheol sighs and lays the back of his hand against his forehead.

“Oh, Jihoon-ah! You’re my knight in shining armour!” Seungcheol exclaims, leaning into Jihoon’s touch.

“You bet your ass I am,” Jihoon mutters, but he flounders under Seungcheol’s weight. “But, uh, seriously, I’m gonna drop you if I have to hold you any longer.”

Seungcheol takes that as his cue to throw all of his weight onto Jihoon’s body. They crash to the floor in a tangle of limbs. It takes only a moment for both of them to burst into laughter.

Seungcheol wiggles around until the room stops spinning. When it seems to be on its proper axis, he finds his arms and manages to shift into an upright position. Jihoon’s arm catches around his neck, however, and Seungcheol freezes.

“Hyung,” Jihoon whispers.

The room is still, lulled into a soft quiet interrupted only by the refrigerator humming, and Seungcheol can feel Jihoon’s breath falling over his neck.

“You know,” Jihoon continues, “this is kinda like—how it used to be.”

He’s not wrong.

Jihoon moves his other arm, completing the circle around Seungcheol’s neck.

Seungcheol closes his eyes.

It _is_ similar, but it feels heavier, weightier, yet more delicate at the same time. Some part of Seungcheol knows that his next move is very, very important. But he’s having difficulty sorting out his options.

When Seungcheol opens his eyes again, things haven’t changed at all. Jihoon’s gaze is steady on him, drilling minute holes, and Seungcheol can feel Jihoon’s body heat creeping through the layers of his clothing.

Seungcheol shifts his weight until he’s framing Jihoon’s head with both of his hands. His knees rest on either side of Jihoon’s hips. He’s glad that he hasn’t accidentally kneed Jihoon in the stomach.

He leans down and Jihoon meets him halfway.

Seungcheol isn’t sure what he imagined kissing Jihoon to be like—he’s thought about it enough, certainly, but never managed to pin down an absolute idea—but he doubts it was this. Jihoon is soft and warm and wet below him, his body a strong, sturdy line of heat feeding directly into Seungcheol’s core. Someone, one of them, makes a whimpering sort of noise, but Seungcheol can’t tell who did it and he doesn’t care at all.

Jihoon follows him when he pulls away to breathe. Seungcheol can’t help the smile that pulls at his mouth when Jihoon settles down with a renewed flush.

The smile on Seungcheol’s face only grows as he reaches out to swipe his thumb over the rise of Jihoon’s cheek. He can feel the warmth of Jihoon’s blush and it stretches his smile further.

“Shut up,” Jihoon huffs.

“I didn’t say anything,” Seungcheol replies around a laugh.

“You didn’t need to,” Jihoon whines. He turns his head away. Seungcheol imagines the tiles of the kitchen floor are cool against his flushed cheek.

“Don’t pout, Jihoonie,” Seungcheol coos.

Jihoon starts to thrash under him, a childish and silent protest, but it takes Seungcheol little effort to cage him in with his limbs. Their bodies are pressed flush together now. Seungcheol can feel every breath Jihoon takes, can feel the shift of his bones and muscles as air enters his lungs.

Jihoon squirms a little, but he makes no other move.

“I wasn’t… I don’t pout, hyung,” Jihoon mutters.

Jihoon is, in fact, pouting at that exact moment. The urge to kiss it off rolls over Seungcheol’s skin—and this time, he gives in. He’s in the perfect position to do it, so why not?

Jihoon melts under him, so soft and yielding that Seungcheol thinks he might just sink into Jihoon’s body and never leave. It’s a tempting idea.

Another small, needy noise floats into the air and this time Seungcheol _thinks_ it’s Jihoon. He still can’t tell; as soon as the sound escapes, it’s devoured by their joined mouths, lost to the desperate slide and scrape of lips, teeth, and tongue.

Eventually, Jihoon’s hands find Seungcheol’s hair. He combs over Seungcheol’s scalp with blunt fingernails. Seungcheol can feel the weight of the ring on Jihoon’s right pinky against his skull.

Just as Jihoon lifts a leg to brush his foot over the curve of Seungcheol’s calf, footsteps echo in the kitchen. The sound isn’t enough to distract the pair on the floor from their current engagement—but a voice is.

“Seung—oh, fuck.”

Seungcheol can’t tell who it is, but the speaker’s identity is irrelevant. Seungcheol tries his best to vault his body as far away from Jihoon as possible, but all he manages to do is roll over onto his back and barely avoid slamming his head against the floor tiles.

“I’m—I’m leaving, it’s not important, goodnight!” calls the unfortunate intruder. Seungcheol belatedly recognizes the speaker as Hansol.

“Don’t forget to have some water!” Hansol calls. His voice is almost lost to the distance, and it trails off into footsteps that lead upstairs.

For a while, all Seungcheol can hear is the sound of Jihoon’s breathing. He turns his head to look at Jihoon, and when their eyes meet, they mirror each other’s mortified expression. The horror doesn’t last long; it takes only seconds for them to break into laughter once again.

Once Seungcheol gets to his feet, he offers Jihoon his hand. Jihoon makes a show of rolling his eyes, but he takes the hand and pulls himself up.

Seungcheol goes to bed feeling warm in his belly.

 

* * *

 

Jihoon wakes up with a headache, but he’s had worse. He rolls around in his bunk as the still morning light flitters over his features. His thoughts are slowly arranging themselves into a comprehensible pattern in his head, taking their time as they’re wont to do in the morning, and he’s content to tangle his limbs in his sheets.

That is, at least, until memories from the night before are fitted into their appropriate blocks in his brain. He shoots upright and almost smashes his forehead against the top bunk.

With bleary eyes, Jihoon gives the top bunk a wary glance. Seungcheol is still snoring away despite Jihoon’s internal racket. That gives him the opportunity to escape, and Jihoon isn’t the type to squander chances like these.

Just as Jihoon slips out of his bedroom, he finds Seungkwan waiting for him. His dongsaeng is tapping his foot impatiently, his arms crossed over his chest.

“So, hyung,” Seungkwan starts, ever the conversationalist, “I think you have some explaining to do.”

That specific string of words is never positive in any context ever. That key phrase sends a shiver down Jihoon’s spine and he feels the itch to turn around and run.

However, Jihoon is a reasonable and responsible human being, so he stays in place and holds Seungkwan’s gaze.

“What makes you say that?” Jihoon asks.

Seungkwan rolls his eyes. “Don’t play dumb.”

Jihoon sighs. Rubbing the back of his neck, he glances around. “Can we at least have this conversation, like, not in the middle of the hall?” he asks.

Seungkwan mimics his sigh and grabs one of Jihoon’s wrists. He pulls Jihoon into the next room over, his room, which is empty. Seungkwan leads Jihoon over to his bed and sits him down.

“I heard from Hansol,” Seungkwan starts, and that alone is enough to make Jihoon deflate, “that you and Seungcheol-hyung were… up to some _unsavoury_ activities on the kitchen floor last night.”

Cracking a wry smile, Jihoon says, “you know, I’m surprised you managed to remember anything from last night, all things considered.”

Although Seungkwan flushes, he plows on without blinking. “It’s easy to remember something like that!”

“You weren’t even there!” Jihoon counters hotly.

“The description was enough!”

Seungkwan’s affinity for the dramatic is usually endearing, and more often than not a life saver on broadcasts, but it only makes Jihoon sweat as he sits with him, knee to knee, hands curled in tight fists over his thighs.

Jihoon looks over Seungkwan’s shoulder at the window. He looks at the frost decorating the glass in a pretty lattice. Then he sighs, sitting up a little straighter, and says, “okay, so there’s no use in denying it. What did you plan to accomplish by ambushing me about it?”

Seungkwan lifts an eyebrow. “Well, I considering your _history_ with Seungcheol-hyung,” and the way Seungkwan spits out _history,_ all hot and accusatory and a little too solid, wrenches tension to the surface of Jihoon’s skin, “I figured you might pull a stupid stunt. So I waited around just to see if you were as predictable as I thought.”

Jihoon deflates again. “You’re too smart for me, Seungkwan-ah,” he mutters, defeated. He gestures with his hands. “So what do you want me to do?” he asks.

“You’re gonna talk to him,” Seungkwan presses. He leans forward and gathers Jihoon’s hands into his own, gently opening them so that he can lace their fingers together. The familiarity of Seungkwan’s skin, his body heat, relaxes the panicked animal within Jihoon that urged him to escape in the first place.

“You’re gonna go out, you’re gonna have some coffee, and you’re gonna talk to him,” Seungkwan continues. He gives Jihoon’s hands a squeeze.

“How can you be so sure I’m gonna do all that?” Jihoon asks, though there’s a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Seungkwan beams. “Because,” Seungkwan says, “I’m gonna take you to the cafe myself.”

A grin unfurls on Jihoon’s mouth. “Yeah?” he asks. “And what about Seungcheol?”

Seungkwan mirrors his grin. “I’ve got it covered,” he says with his usual confidence.

 

* * *

 

“Hyung,” calls a familiar voice.

There are hands on Seungcheol’s chest and stomach. They nudge at him gently—until they become more forceful with impatience, pushing the air out of Seungcheol’s body.

“I’m awake,” Seungcheol gasps. He struggles to sit up and only manages to prop up his weight on his elbows. “What’s up?” he asks. His eyes are still shut.

“It’s, like, 11AM,” the voice continues. Now that Seungcheol is more awake, he manages to identify the speaker as Hansol.

“So?” Seungcheol asks. “We don’t have any schedules today. That’s why I treated you all last night.”

Hansol snorts. “Is that really the only reason?”

Seungcheol doesn’t like the hint of accusation in Hansol’s tone. He manages to pull himself upright and balances his weight on his knees.

“What is this, an interrogation? Be grateful I paid for you,” Seungcheol grumbles, rubbing at his eyes. When he manages to pry them open and lay them on Hansol’s face, his mind suddenly conjures Hansol’s shaken voice from the night before.

Seungcheol flushes. Hansol’s brow furrows and he tilts his head to the side, questioning.

“Uh,” Seungcheol says. He pushes a hand through his hair when he is greeted with silence. “Um,” Seungcheol tries again, “did you… did you want to talk to me about what happened last night?” Is that why Hansol is so impatient to wake him up?

Hansol averts his gaze. It isn’t long before he’s wearing a blush that matches the one on Seungcheol’s face.

“N-Not exactly,” Hansol replies slowly. His eyes dance around the room for a little while longer, and then he finally levels them with Seungcheol’s. “Like, we don’t need to talk about _what happened_ exactly, but—you know. About that.”

Seungcheol holds back a sigh. “Okay, so—what about it?’

Hansol’s expression doesn’t harden, not exactly, but his features find a certain firmness.

“I don’t even know where to start, hyung,” Hansol replies, hints of a sardonic laugh caught in the spaces between his teeth. He leans forward and rests his arms against the frame of the bunk bed. “I know you and Jihoon-hyung have kind of a, you know, a _history,_ so I guess that’s really the reason why—” He stops to gesture with a hand. It’s weird that Seungcheol can extract any sort of meaning from the silent gesture at all, but he does, and it doesn’t make him feel any better.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is…” Hansol tries again, looking up directly into Seungcheol’s eyes, “is that, like—you should probably do something about it this time.”

Seungcheol snorts. “Yeah? And what do you think I should do, huh?”

“Talk to him,” Hansol says. The words come out so forcefully that Seungcheol thinks Hansol _isn’t_ talking to his hyung and general leader, but he supposes he can’t blame Hansol for it, either. He’ll let it slide—compensation for having him walk in on them last night.

“You think it’s that easy?”

Hansol purses his lips. “No,” he replies with careful slowness, “but at this point, I don’t think there’s really an easier option than that.”

Huffing a sigh, Seungcheol falls back onto his bed. He sprawls his limbs out and wishes he could become one with the mattress.

“Come on, hyung,” Hansol complains. “I—well, it was Seungkwan’s idea, but—we’ve got your back. We got you covered.”

Seungcheol turns his head and barely meets Hansol’s eye over the frame of his bed. “Oh?” he asks.

Hansol smiles at him. The expression is dangerously close to a grin.

“Yeah, man,” he says, “don’t worry about it. It’s just a simple coffee date. If Mingyu-hyung can do it on his own, on camera in front of, like, thousands of people, then you can do it for real with someone you genuinely, really like.”

Seungcheol sighs again.

“Since when was it okay for kids like you to mess with my personal business?” Seungcheol asks, his question directed at the ceiling.

“Since it was okay for your personal business to involve making out with Jihoon-hyung on the kitchen floor,” Hansol responds dryly.

“Okay, I’ll give you that one.”

Hansol snorts.

The bed frame creaks as Hansol steps off the bottom bunk.

“Get dressed, hyung,” Hansol calls. “We’re supposed to meet them at the cafe at noon.”

Seungcheol groans and throws a pillow in Hansol’s general direction.

 

* * *

 

“Oh, thank god,” Jihoon sighs as they enter the cafe. The warmth of the indoors still isn’t enough to coax his hands out of his pockets, but at least he stops shaking.

Seungkwan examines his surroundings with an analytical eye. Jihoon turns to face him and lifts an eyebrow.

“Okay, well, here we are,” Jihoon says in a flat tone. “You’ve completed your escort mission now. Or was the objective to chain me to a booth with Seungcheol until we talk?”

“Don’t talk in video game speech,” Seungkwan replies without looking at him. He’s too busy glancing between the menu posted behind the cash and the window. “And don’t be so dramatic. I just want to make sure Hansollie and Seungcheol-hyung actually show up.”

“You’re one to be throwing the word ‘dramatic’ around,” Jihoon snorts. He follows Seungkwan’s line of sight anyway. The outside world is slightly obscured by frost and the backwards word art decorating the glass.

“Besides,” Jihoon continues, “I thought you said you had it covered?”

“That’s the trouble with sharing a job with Hansol, you know. If it had been Seokmin-hyung or Soonyoung—oh, there they are.”

Jihoon squints at the window. He can see two dark blurs approaching the shop. He quickly gives up trying to see what Seungkwan sees and wanders over to the counter.

When the bell above the door rings, Jihoon doesn’t turn away from the menu and the cashier giving him a bored look. He can hear chatter by the door, and the fact that he can identify Seungcheol’s voice with such ease fills him with stifling cotton from ear to ear.

He supposes that’s why he’s meant to have this _talk_ with Seungcheol in the first place.

“Here,” Seungkwan says, bumping elbows with Jihoon, “I got it this time. What do you want?”

“Oh? What’s this?” Jihoon asks. A small smile curves his mouth.

“Don’t get the wrong idea,” Seungkwan replies. “I’m just making this easier for everyone involved.”

“Seungkwan-ah, I want a cappuccino,” Hansol butts in, materializing by Seungkwan’s side.

“So tell the cashier yourself!” Seungkwan snaps. He turns to Hansol for the sole purpose of rolling his eyes at him.

Though Hansol pouts a little, he approaches the counter and relays his order. Seungcheol is quick to follow suit, then Seungkwan, then Jihoon. When all their drinks are distributed, Seungkwan loops an arm around Hansol’s.

“Well,” Seungkwan says, “we’re leaving now, so you guys’ll have some privacy. But I swear to god, if I see you leave in like ten minutes, or even fifteen or twenty, you’ll have to face my wrath!”

Seungkwan points at his eyes with two fingers before aiming them at Seungcheol and Jihoon. Hansol grins and rolls his eyes, and then he tugs at their linked arms.

“Come on, let’s leave them alone now,” Hansol says.

Seungkwan’s gaze lingers on Seungcheol and Jihoon for a few more hot seconds. Turning his head with a flourish, he lets Hansol lead the two of them out of the cafe.

With nothing else to focus his attention on, Jihoon has no choice but to finally face Seungcheol. As he lifts his eyes to observe Seungcheol’s expression, he feels a blush fill his cheeks with warmth. His gaze goes to Seungcheol’s mouth first and his brain rattles as memories from last night suddenly rush to the front of his mind.

Before silence can settle its roots too deeply between them, Seungcheol gestures to a booth with his chin. “Let’s sit?” he suggests.

Jihoon follows him to a booth by another window. Cold seeps through the glass. Jihoon draws a little stick figure in the frost.

“Did you sleep well?” Seungcheol asks conversationally.

Jihoon adds a spiky aura around his stick figure. When he turns to face Seungcheol, he fights back a sigh.

“Yeah,” Jihoon replies, deciding to play along, “I didn’t drink _too_ much.”

“Same,” Seungcheol says.

Jihoon snorts a laugh.

“I dunno, hyung, you didn’t seem to be completely in your head. Your responses weren’t exactly…” Jihoon waves a hand. “You know. Speech-worthy or anything.”

Seungcheol pouts. “Am I not allowed to speak informally with you? I _am_ the older one here.”

Jihoon rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean,” he says. “And…”

This time, Jihoon doesn’t even bother gesturing. The weight of his statement should be enough to communicate what he wants. There’s really only one other thing to talk about: it’s the reason Seungkwan and Hansol were so insistent to have them talk in the first place.

Seungcheol traces the sleeve around his paper cup with his finger, his eyes downcast. Jihoon occupies his mouth with his drink.

“Well—I guess that’s the thing, right,” Seungcheol murmurs. “I promised we’d talk next time. It didn’t go according to plan—though I guess that assumes I had a plan, which I definitely didn’t—and I kind of just…”

Seungcheol looks up and meets Jihoon’s eyes.

Jihoon understands. Of course he does. They have avoided talking about this for literal years; it was never meant to be an easy task, and pushing it back definitely hadn’t made it any easier. That thought brings Jihoon comfort, small as it is, but at the same time, having that comfort is better than nothing.

“Anyway,” Seungcheol says, picking up his voice once more, “I think—I _think_ it’s just a matter of, like… what you want. What we want to do, going forward.” That last word staggers out of Seungcheol’s mouth like it wasn’t made to be spoken aloud, like it wasn’t made with human speech in mind, but it makes it out of there in one piece, somehow.

It’s kind of… cute.

Jihoon looks down at the lid of his cup. A drop of coffee has escaped onto the white plastic, staining it. Jihoon thumbs it and licks it off absently. When he looks up, he finds Seungcheol staring at him.

Jihoon manages a wry smile. “That _is_ the question, isn’t it?” Jihoon says.

Seungcheol rolls his eyes. “Yeah, and stalling isn’t really all that helpful, you know.”

The smile on Jihoon’s face grows. “Sorry,” he says, and the way that Seungcheol’s eyebrows climb up his forehead speaks enough about how convincing Jihoon appears to be, “I can’t just suddenly grow out of the habit of—avoiding.”

Something nudges Jihoon’s foot under the table. Jihoon kicks back instinctively and Seungcheol grins. They engage in a little boot battle.

“Well,” Seungcheol starts up again, “I guess—if you ask me—I think—I’d like to do that again.”

Jihoon perks up. “Yeah?” Jihoon asks. “And what exactly do you mean by ‘that’?”

A blush brushes over Seungcheol’s cheeks. “You know. What we were doing that probably scarred Hansol for life.”

“Of all the members to see us…” Jihoon sighs. He finds himself unable to resist the smile that tugs at his mouth. “Well… I guess I wouldn’t be opposed to that.”

“You really weren’t opposed to it at all last night.”

Now it’s Jihoon’s turn to blush. “Well—then why even have this conversation?” he asks hotly, bristling.

Seungcheol laughs. It’s bright and bouncy and settles warmly in Jihoon’s chest.

“You know why,” Seungcheol replies. His eyes sparkle with mirth and Jihoon finds himself a little breathless.

Humming, Jihoon holds onto the little smile curling his lips, content to live with his affection for Seungcheol in this brief moment. He nudges Seungcheol’s foot under the table again and ends up with his ankle caught between both of Seungcheol’s.

Jihoon is pretty okay with this.

“Well, okay,” Jihoon says.

“Okay,” Seungcheol says.

They both take a drink of coffee.

“Does this mean that—” Seungcheol says at the same time Jihoon says, “Does this make you—”

They both look up. A second of silence passes, and then they both burst into laughter.

“Yeah,” Seungcheol says, having caught his breath first. “I think, um—yeah. I’d like that.”

“You’d like what?” Jihoon presses.

Seungcheol purses his lips for a second. “Of course you’d make me say it first,” he sighs, but the smile on his face betrays his weary tone. “But, as the older one and therefore the more responsible one, I’m willing to take on this burden. For your sake.”

“Bullshit,” Jihoon mutters.

“I’m going to ignore that,” Seungcheol declares. “But anyway, as I was saying—yeah. I think I’d like to be your boyfriend.”

Another blush fights its way to Jihoon’s face. He glances around the shop, looking for eavesdroppers; maybe Seungkwan and Hansol are creeping around the corner. When he finds nothing suspicious, he’s left with no choice but to finally meet Seungcheol’s eyes.

Seungcheol grins at him from across the table, bright and warm enough to combat the chill creeping in through the window. That must be one of the reasons Jihoon finds himself filled to the brim with bubbling affection—one amongst many. Too many, probably, and definitely too many to think about in the present moment.

“Was that too straightforward?” Seungcheol asks. “Or did you want me to kiss you and hope you’d get the message?”

“Let’s not get too hasty, hyung. We’re in public,” Jihoon reminds him. His eyes itch to look around again.

“Fine, fine.” Seungcheol waves a hand before he adds, “but, you know, I’m still waiting.”

Jihoon plays with his paper cup for a little bit. He takes a few steadying breaths, trying to ignore the weight of Seungcheol’s expectant stare on his shoulders, before he says, “um—well.”

“Yeah?”

“Jesus christ, Seungcheol, are you gonna let me talk?” Jihoon snaps. The flush in his face is starting to make him sweat, and Seungcheol’s smirk doesn’t help any. “God. Anyway. I think it’d be… Like, uh—like. I’d like that.” He swallows. “I’d like it… if you were my boyfriend.”

Seungcheol grins again. “See! Was that so hard?” he asks. The way he balances his chin in one hand and levels a soft stare in Jihoon’s direction doesn’t help Jihoon’s sweating situation at all.

“Yes,” Jihoon replies immediately, casting his eyes away. “There _is_ a reason we’ve been avoiding this conversation for so long.”

Humming, Seungcheol smiles. “Actually, I kind of like the sound of that. Like this conversation was meant to happen no matter what.”

Jihoon wants to give a snarky response—he wants to say  _I would have said no in any other circumstance,_ but he finds himself unable to imagine any scenario where he really would have said no and meant it. It is much more difficult to imagine them having the conversation at all rather than to imagine him rejecting Seungcheol.

Jihoon isn’t sure what to think about that. He doesn’t need to think about it at all at this point, he supposes. It’s done now.

And that’s a funny thought on its own. It’s… _done._ Their long-lived and complex dance has finally reached a conclusion. Maybe their next dance will be just as long-lived and complex, but the avoidance part has finally come to an end.

God, that’s weird.

“I guess it kind of was,” Jihoon mutters.

Suddenly there’s a thumb and forefinger under Jihoon’s chin, lifting his face upwards. Jihoon finds Seungcheol’s gaze without any difficulty.

“Chin up, Jihoon-ah,” Seungcheol murmurs. His voice travels down the length of Jihoon’s spine with ease. “The hard part is over, so let’s just enjoy this, okay?”

Jihoon hums. Seungcheol’s hand follows the vibration down the column of Jihoon’s neck, such an openly affectionate gesture that it leaves Jihoon’s skin buzzing.

“Okay,” Jihoon agrees, his words barely above a whisper.

“Good.”

Seungcheol trails his hand down the curve of Jihoon’s shoulder and down the length of Jihoon’s arm. It doesn’t stop until it reaches Jihoon’s hand.

“Come on,” Seungcheol says, twining their fingers together, “let’s go home.”

“And pick up where we left off last night?” Jihoon asks, a breathless laugh on his tongue. He follows Seungcheol’s lead without hesitation, standing from the booth and heading towards the door.

Seungcheol shoots Jihoon a devious grin over his shoulder. “If that’s what you want,” he replies.

Jihoon takes a moment to mull it over. He rubs his fingers against Seungcheol’s, contemplative.

“Yeah,” Jihoon says, slowly returning the grin, “it is.”

The bell above the door chimes as they exit.


End file.
